


Infinity

by hanapreston



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hell, Possible Character Death, Possible Trigger Warning Later On, RIP my feelings, hopefully domestic deckerstar, like a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-05-31 02:36:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19416727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanapreston/pseuds/hanapreston
Summary: Set post-Season 4 finale. Chloe is stuck, desperately trying to come to terms with the loss of the man she loves. Eons below, Lucifer is trapped, too, in his own flaming kingdom of torture and pain. When he finally sees Chloe again... there's nowhere to hide from the heartbreak that won't hesitate to break its chains.Past tense, third person.





	1. Journey Through Eternity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariaadagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/gifts).



> Hey guys! So this is my first fic on this site, and I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing other than the obvious state of wallowing in the news that Season 5 will be the last of its kind. Also, I'm English, so if you see an irrelevant 'u' slotted into a word, don't mind it. Otherwise... here goes nothing?
> 
> Chapter title credits go to Céline Dion.

There she was. Chloe, sitting in the corner of Lucifer’s penthouse, sobbing into one of his suits because it was the only thing she had left of him. 

Under her breath, repeatedly, as if saying it were a prayer yet to be answered, she whispered his name — all of it — Lucifer Samael Morningstar, again, and again, and again, until the whispers of whispers that left her breath were just desperate thoughts in the back of her mind, the Prada silk of his jacket blocking her eyes like the nightfall, lacklustre for the stars he had made.

And far, far, infinitely below, sat the Devil himself, staring out at his own land of fire and brimstone, hand on his lapel, absent-mindedly fondling the last scrap of earthly clothing that the detective — his detective — had dared to touch. His scattered mind was cast up to the earth he’d belonged on, to the pleading farewell that crept off of her breath, to the hopeless shutting of her eyes as he cast off from his floor, ethereal wings bidding the final goodbye to the life he’d cherished.

Through the harsh veil of heat, of flame, of torture, of death, Lucifer glanced up at what could only have been the sky, saturated in the darkening blood of tortured souls.  _ At least,  _ he thought, as if some dire positive could be applied to this celestial plight,  _ I didn’t fall this time. At least it was not my father who cast me down, but my own wings which deposited me here.  _ Here. Hell. As the Devil, he went by far too many conspicuous names — Lucifer, Beelzelbub, Satan… Old Scratch was a favourite of his — but for all of its flaming damnation, his self-destructing sanctuary went by a single name — unchanged but for differentiating languages upon many tongues. He looked up — at least, he looked to his twisted perception of _up_ — again, silently begging the aching desire for his detective to settle down in the back of his confused mind, his own emotion the loudest of cinema-goers in preparation for the greatest tragedy of all time.

Slowly, hopelessly, Chloe looked again at the empty balcony, choking in another sob as the space where he should have been… was not. Was as mindlessly empty as the night sky, blackened and ever-darkening as the lights of Lucifer the Morning Star blinked out, one by one. Not even the galaxies could comfort her now. Shutting her despairing eyes, Chloe buried her head back into the infinitely soft Prada, the breeze cooling the lips he had held in his own, fresh night air whispering across the area below her eye that he’d cupped lovingly in his palm, moments before…

“ _ It always has been.” _

She was his first love. The Devil. The bringer of light, the blesser of dawns. Chloe Jane Decker, a nobody. In her stubborn, bull-headed stupor, she’d have admitted her feelings for Lucifer just as soon as she’d begged in front of him, and in pure, humane naïveté, the assumption crept through that neither of those things would ever have happened. Not before this. Begrudgingly, Chloe allowed her thoughts to slide back into memories of the days before her devil, of the kind of mindless tranquility that he’d have snorted at years before. Days of ice cream with Trixie, marriage with Dan, complete lack of devilish charm… and as much - as desperately as she beseeched her mind to fall into those memories, to forget the eye-poppingly expensive Prada jacket, and that illustrious sandalwood-vanilla scent, and the soft, warm glow that the penthouse seemed to radiate… she could not. She would not. 

Lucifer glanced down at the dark throne below him. In the light of… the moon, perhaps, it glistened like sleek obsidian, icy and uncomfortable as he shifted his red-soled Louboutins for the third time that minute. Uncharacteristically, he made the conscious decision to flinch away from the screams below him, no longer revelling in the fact that these souls deserved the loops they were stuck in, but struck by the reality of the detective’s own words. 

“You have to stop taking responsibility for things you can’t control.”

Of course, he wasn’t in control here, per se — as he’d tried to reiterate so many times, humans are the living embodiment of their useless thoughts — they go where they believe they belonged, for where else would their minds lead them? — but perhaps it was in his control to cease the madness that echoed through the caverns below him. 

The climb down from his seat would have been exhausting, had the stimulation of the freezing bite of the wind and the roaring screams of the flames not kept him going, but they did, each harshly familiar noise burrowing into his ear like hellish worms. The screams, however, did not stop. Italian shoe soles hit the dark material of the ground of Hell, undiscovered on the earthly planes for its untethered evil. The winds, down there, had ceased, the endless mazes of hell instead amplifying the terrified screams. Again, he winced, as a cell far too close to him, for his liking, rattled with the traumatised prayers of flaming lunacy. Surely this was no place for conscious soles to stay. 

Each sleek door was engraved with the primary sin of such wrongdoers; illustrated, however, in anciently twisted details that the Devil himself had to consider for some moments. 

_ Imprisoned for the inescapable scarlet of innocent blood on one’s hand.  _

_ Cast down for the desperately intense coveting of works at the doing of another man.  _

_ Unprotected from the irresistible temptation to take which is not divinely their own.  _

Murder. Jealousy. Theft. Three of many basic breaches of commandments which were surely not punishable by the eternal stench of brimstone and blood. He blinked, passing by another door, inspecting its ‘contents’, he realised, like meat in a freezer. This one was new. A smile got caught in his throat as as Lucifer’s lips quirked up at the iconoclastic reasoning, before sliding back down into an unfamiliarly disturbed frown. 

_ Sent back from starry planes for fear of grasping humanity.  _

The words were a vindictive concoction of confusion and spite, blurring in front of his irises as a Lucifer absently propped open the door. As it shut behind him, the Devil stopped, Louboutins clicking on a familiar marble floor.  _ The penthouse.  _ A sharp breeze slipped off of the balcony, instinct snapping its ready fingers as he walked over to push the frames shut. Outside, Lucifer paused, painfully aware, even as he stared longingly out at the Los Angeles light, that this was still hell. Whose, though? What bewildered person would make _this_ their hell loop? Resting his palms against the cool metal of the balcony, he shut his lonely eyes, caught out suddenly by the claustrophobic silence that broke through the too-perfect tenebrosity. 

Chloe’s eyes flitted up from the jacket to the patio, a sudden shiver of _deja vu_ trickling down her back as another bite of wind slid in through the door she had yet to close. There, where should have been Lucifer, as he had stood so many nights — one hand on the rail, another on his whiskey glass as the moonlight melted around him and onto the floor. Whether or not she’d seen his devil face, or his angel wings, he always had seemed ethereal in his cat-like grace, a cologne advert waiting to happen. She watched the flashing lights of Los Angeles as they shone, tears blurring them into a useless smudge of red and blue and white. He should be here. As his silhouette screamed at her peripherals, as his grin clawed at the back of her thoughts, she sobbed, ragged breaths drawing back into her throat as she tried to breathe, her knees instinctively drawing up to her chin as the light-headedness set in. Her vision blurred - fizzed, almost, the veiled uncertainty that came with lack of oxygen seeming to cast her into a dream, as if she was watching herself, there, not-quite-breathing on the floor. Glancing down, she stared at her hands as they began to shut down, muted pins and needles whispering up her limbs as she desperately tried to inhale, exhale, stay alive - but the breaths would not come as staccato sobs ripped out of her mouth, folding into herself, trying to focus her gaze on a single thing, terrified screams not quite reaching the air, cries blocking her throat instead.

There was his name, attempting to crawl its way out of her throat, again and again, a hopeless plea for a safe haven in this… whatever this was, because that’s where he’d  _ been  _ before - when she wanted him, when she’d needed him, inhalations that didn’t quite  _ work  _ trying, too, to edge past her own fading screams, the despairing ache for his hand on her shoulder, his voice in her ear, (his lips on her mouth) drifting out of her vision too, as she clenched her eyes against the suit that wasn’t hers, as consciousness became simply a dreary state of mind, as paralysing sleep overwhelmed her, because nothing, and no-one else, could save her.

He whipped around, having stood rigid for minutes, disoriented by the sudden tug of recognition that stemmed from the corner. And he froze. Widening slightly, his eyes passed dutifully over the scene, fists clenching as he tried to deny the one piece of solidarity he’d thought he had. The detective. There, in the corner, her chest rising and falling unsteadily, her hands still shaking even as her eyes gave away her sleeping stasis. Gripping onto the table for support, Lucifer stared, her name edging its way out of his mouth, even as she didn’t stir. The first step he took was almost a failure, his legs precariously close to giving out as he took in the jacket - his jacket - pressed to her face. The expression that she wore, even in sleep, was cautious, tentative twitches of her eyes presenting to him her fever dreams. He whispered her name, again, the rapid succession of heartbeats pounding in his ears giving heed to the unashamed joy he couldn’t help but feel.  _ Chloe.  _

When he finally, finally reached her, his knees hit the floor as he watched the biting draught push away the hair that hung over her eyes, desperately willing himself not to reach out — but even the ruler of all things desirable couldn’t deny himself that. Tentatively, as if she was a prestigious artwork, (wasn’t she?) his fingers crept out, drifting slowly across the marble floor towards her arm. He paused, momentarily, before they touched, inhaling the faint smell of roses that seemed to trail behind her wherever she went, as if she was the living embodiment of a sun-drenched spring day. Had he not been able to recognise all things ethereal at any point in time, he might have described her as an angel as the stars — his stars — shone above her. Finally, he willed his aching fingers to reach out, to cross the inch of space that lay between him and humanity, between him and love. Time seemed to slow - further, even, than it did because of the differentiating passing of seconds between earth and hell — as they touched; a single, lonely spark of heat and desire and sadness and desperation. And then it was gone. It was gone as, having so decisively expecting the solid warmth of the detective’s arm, Lucifer’s fingers tumbled through earth, and space, and hell, just to land on the familiarly estranged cold of his floor. He didn’t breathe. Not for what could have been a minute or an eternity, because all that he could see, all that he could (not) understand, was that where his detective should have lain, was a hollow projection of false hope and broken dreams. At last, when blackened stars began to dance in his vision, did he breathe, sucking in the cold air as if it were a life source to the devil, the immortal man, begging the tears desperately not to fall. The pieces started to slot together like a demonic jigsaw as he worked through the haze that had slipped over his jagged mind. This was  _ his  _ loop.

_ Sent back from starry planes… _

Banished from heaven.

_ For fear of grasping humanity. _

Because other people - his father, perhaps - were afraid of his humane traits; how dare he have shown such emotions as desire, as love?


	2. Can We Surrender?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe tries to come to terms with losing Lucifer, just as Lucifer tries to come to terms with losing all the hope he had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So a load of people left kudos on my work. which was intended to be a one-shot, but I've decided to add another chapter, and then probably loads more after that (I'll update as I write). Thank you so much for all the praise and feedback! (It really does mean a lot.)
> 
> Also, don't be afraid to leave a comment or two with suggestions for where I could go with this next — I've got a faint idea, but nothing concrete just yet.
> 
> Chapter title credits go to Natalie Taylor.

He looked down, hopelessly, at the detective below him, his hand passing through her arm, and let his shoulders fall. They sank as years — eons — of barricades fell down, collapsing as a single unit with the first sob that escaped his lips. How beautifully ironic. The ruler of hell a servant in his own flaming kingdom. She slept on below him, fitfully, albeit, as he finally stood, crashing his way almost drunkenly from Chloe to the piano. The piano, where they’d sat, so many times. Absently, his index finger slid onto the middle C, pressing it down with the hate of a tyrannical ruler upon his nation. The noise was jarring, unnatural, and yet he played it, again and again, until it wasn’t one key going down, but the whole set, smashing and heaving under the weight of the devil’s pain. The noise not dissimilar to Mozart’s hell loop — painfully awful, awfully loud. He crashed at the piano until not a single piece was left in tact, unhinged devilish strength hurling shards of ceramic and wood every which way, tears streaming down his darkened face as he wept. Finally, he stopped, taking a wary step back from his own destruction. The piano lay discarded on the floor. Lucifer pulled up his shaking hands in front of his vision, clawing now against his face as if he could rip the emotions out of his tears. He glanced again at Chloe, still trapped in her unrest on the floor — except that she wasn’t. She wasn’t _here,_ on _this_ floor — she was divine eons above, on the _real_ marble of the penthouse — not trapped in her own hell loop, at the bottom of the universe. Lucifer slid to the ground, uselessly attempting to wipe the salt water from his cheeks. There, the devil broke, sobbing and sobbing as his own hidden emotions attacked, ever more merciless as the tears continued to fall. This was hell. 

_This was hell_. As she opened her eyes, Chloe forced herself to disparage the clichéd thought, all too aware now that this _wasn’t_ hell, because had it really been that infamous pit of fire and brimstone, her devil would have had to be here too. In a blind moment of startling hope, she looked up, half expecting to see Lucifer there, comically holding out an espresso and some whiskey as he had all those years ago. _You snore, by the way. Like an Albanian field wench._ She’d never actually checked to see if his whimsical insult was true, but still she smiled at the memory, at the ceaseless silk of his sheets, of the faint smell of smoke that wafted from the balcony. Moving to stand, Chloe realised how overwhelmingly thirsty she was, and, summing up the stasis of Lucifer having literally _zero_ non-alcoholic substances in his penthouse, grabbed a glass and filled it up with tap water. The room, even in broad daylight, was remarkably dark — the warm light that emanated from the bar seemed to be the primary source in his penthouse. It was strange. Lucifer the Light Bringer, illuminated by darkness and manufactured yellow. Perhaps he was sick of the light his father had forced him to create. Just as she finished her drink, the lift bell sounded, and Chloe almost spat out the rest of her water in anticipation. Yet again, she let hope better her, convincing herself that it was Lucifer that would walk through those doors, even as the rational part of her brain tried to twist her thoughts the other way. Even so, she was disappointed as Mazikeen’s tall figure passed into the house, whipping around in that cat-like grace that Maze possessed, as if she was sniffing the air. Her gaze settled on Chloe, bewildered, tear-streaked, and clutching an empty whiskey glass. 

“You look... rough.”

She said it with a haphazard smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes as Chloe set her glass down, desperately trying to edge in front of the Prada jacket. Maze, of course, wasn’t falling for anything. With almost impossible speed, she reached down and snatched up the suit, eyeing Chloe with an air of suspicion. Behind the frown, and the knives, though, there was a distinct uncomfortability behind her gaze as she stared at the black material.

“Where’s Lucifer?”

Chloe remained silent, staring resolutely at a spot on the floor as Maze prowled closer. _Everywhere._ She wanted to say. _Nowhere._ She couldn’t say. The silence overwhelmed both of them as the truth seemed to dawn onto the demon, who took a heavy step back.

“He left, didn’t he.”

It was no longer a question, but a statement, that ripped apart eternities in the powerful betrayal of it all. Leaving to Vegas, or London, or Paris… that was _different._ They both knew that. Chloe didn’t move, leaving Maze to watch, her hunting eyes desperate for an answer. There was no movement in the room for a good minute, before the dark haired woman finally broke the silence, striding painfully closer to Chloe.

“Where. Is. He.”

The worst part was that the words were supposed to be menacing, threatening an answer out of the puny human — but they were laced with fear, doubt, and, Chloe realised, hope for what was to come. She shook her head finally, a single, useless tear slipping past her cheekbone as Maze watched. He was in _hell._ Infinite loops of time below, trapped in what could only be presumed as despairing misery. 

“He left us.”

And as the words leave Chloe’s mouth, each pained syllable worse than the last, Maze steps back, her mouth hanging slightly open as the words hit home. She shakes her head, blinking furiously — because demons don’t have emotions, surely… but demons don’t have friends. Or families. Or brothers in arms, satanic rulers for whom they’d sacrifice their lives… and that was Lucifer. And that was gone.

Her expression broke like glass.

Maze turned towards the lift, gripping so hard onto the table that shards of it splintered in her grasp. At Chloe, she directed one last look, so packed full of betrayal that it seemed to translate to pure heartbreak — and with the same inhuman silence that only Lucifer possessed the ability to produce, she slid through the doors and out into the dark, dark day.

Lucifer sat up, breathing in the faint scent of sulphur that trailed with him into his hell loop. Instinctively, almost as if he was back up on earth again, he looked over to where Chloe had been, his eyes dry from all the tears that had fallen. He did not know what time, or what day, or what year it was up on the human planes, but that at least minutes had passed, for his detective had moved. His suit remained on the floor, crumpled, creased and soaked through with tears — for once, Lucifer realised, he didn’t care. Alarmed, Lucifer jumped as the lift dinged, realising too late that this was his house — that people here couldn’t see him anyway. The thought struck him, remarkably suddenly, that if his entrance — the doors — were cordoned now off to humanity, where would he get out? Brushing the irrational fears from the cobwebs building in his mind, he sighed, looking up at whoever was entering. 

The detective walked in, timidly, as if she were breaking into his home. _This isn’t just_ my _home, Detective._ He wanted, so desperately, to say to her. _You belong here, too._ The words left his mouth before he could cram them back in, so disgustingly vulnerable that the devil could barely even believe he’d formed them. He watched, however, begging for some reaction from Chloe as she crouched down by the jacket, picking it up by the collar. The disappointment that followed, courtesy of the unwarranted response, was claustrophobic; even now, in the bowels of hell. Blinking, Lucifer followed her into his room, up past the disturbingly familiar stairs, as she traced here fingers over the silk of the blazer, shutting her eyes as if she could conjure him up himself. Unfiltered now, the devil let loose his words, all too aware that Chloe couldn’t hear him. That she’d never hear him.

“You don’t need to bloody _think_ me up, love, I’m right here!”

Close to laughing at the mortal clinginess in his voice, he watched as she whispered something cryptic under her breath, grasping hold of a clothes hanger and sliding it through both sleeves. As she hung the jacket back up, Lucifer noticed a measured slump in her shoulders — from relief, or hurt, or something entirely different, he didn’t — he couldn’t — know, and as she began to turn, to walk back towards the exit with a newly discovered weight on her shoulders, he reached towards her, hopelessly craving the smoothness of her skin on his own, the silkiness of her hair as his fingers raked through it, the warmth of her breath as it whispered past his chin. Again, he fell through, the difference in the air unchanged but for his cries, collapsing to his knees as the hellish wind — just as sharp, as biting, as deadly, as Azrael’s blade, whispered through Chloe’s holographic figure and into his own heart. Unhinged, Lucifer let loose a wail; so devastatingly ear-splitting that he himself had to press his hands against the side of his head. The air seemed to be pushing down on him, so weighted that it dragged him to the floor as he watched the doors slide open, Chloe’s silhouetted figure hidden from his sight as he crashed his head again and again into the floor. The cold grip of instinct closed around him, casting his hands to his forehead to feel for the blood that should be leaking out of his forehead, because he was vulnerable around her, of course — except he wasn’t. He wasn’t vulnerable because the last time he’d been anywhere near Chloe — the real version, his detective… seemed eons ago. This was a lie. A stimulation. This was his father’s game.

Chloe sighed as the lift doors shut, the cold hand of recognition finally releasing her as she started to descend. Resting her hands against the cool metal of the elevator, she thought back to all the times she’d been up and down in this stupid, unlocked thing. Dead ghosts of memories flitted past her like sparrows set free; Lucifer, and Lucifer, and Lucifer, every ethereal inch of his face sliding into her thoughts like irrational fears into darkness. Shutting her eyes, again, attempting to block out the infernal terror that clawed at her in deepened silences, she waited as the lift sank to its halt, stepping out into the silent club. Out of habit, she glanced at the clock on the wall, minimally surprised at how little time had passed. What had felt like a miserable eternity had in fact passed in minutes; all it was, she reminded herself, was bidding goodbye to his jacket.

Except it wasn’t just hanging up some clothes. Through the haze of farewell’s darkened veil, she’d seen Lucifer, conjured up by the smell of his shirt, his dry laugh still echoing through her head. Since Lux hadn’t opened for business yet, the place was empty, his piano still sat pride of place in the middle, illuminated by the stark, cold lights of the club. Absently, Chloe sat on the padded leather of the seat, fingering the keys as he had done so often in the darkness of his own thoughts. She didn’t dare press one down — no, this was Lucifer’s property, his memories to pull from the depths of forgetfulness if he ever returned. _If._ A small gasp caught in her throat as she contemplated a lifetime of this misery, of feeling so fragile that perhaps if she fell over, she’d snap. As if she wasn’t already broken.

It was difficult to acknowledge the aching feeling in the pit of her stomach, something close to hunger but so much more desperate, clinging to hope and fear and joy and pain. It was an emptiness; a fading gape where happiness should have been — where it wasn’t, because every time she inhaled the air he’d once breathed, it was there again, pulling her down from nonchalance into misery, all over again. Shaking her head, Chloe tried to disparage those thoughts from her mind, fully aware that she was too close to stepping into the familiar trap of anger, of depression, of scars, all over again. Fumbling, she grabbed her phone from her pocket as it started to buzz, Ella’s familiar face popping up by the caller ID. Mustering up all the strength she possessed to at least _sound_ happy, the detective’s thumb slid across the screen as she picked up.

“Ella, hey.”

_Way to appear positive, Decker._ Her voice sounded like she’d swallowed a rock. Ella didn’t seem to notice as her childishly excited voice carried down the phone.

“Hi Chlo! How’s it hanging?”

Chloe was about to answer, but didn’t get a chance as the chirpy forensics scientist continued to speak.

“Okay. So I know that, like, because Lucifer took a vacay or whatever, you’re probably feeling like shit, and I was wondering if you wanted to come over to mine? Maze and Linda’ll be here too, so it’ll be all our tribe reunited. Sound good?”

Again, the detective attempted to slide a reply through the hyper blockade of Ella’s words, but barely got the first half of, ‘okay’ out of her mouth before the barrier rose again.

“Okay! I’ll text you my address. Come in whatever at about 8.”

With that, the dial tone sounded, and Chloe was left stranded in silence again. The ghost of a smile played at her lips as she stood, picturing Ella’s over-excited expression on the other side of the phone. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad from here on out after all.


	3. Home, Keep Hold of My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe gets invited round to Ella's for a drunken movie night — Lucifer comes to terms with having to break the most important promise he's ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, again. Sorry that I haven't posted in what feels like so long — I don't really have an excuse, I just ran head first into a period of 'un-motivation.' I'm back now, though.
> 
> Also, sorry if you're looking forward to, like, a super fun description of the movie night — I'm not used to writing happy stuff, so that part is kind of brief, but I can probably try and write a separate one-shot if anyone really wants that. Other than that, enjoy!
> 
> Chapter title credits go to Rhodes.

For the fourth time that minute, Lucifer pressed the bell on the lift, watching as it lit up, illuminating the small area for roundabout 10 seconds, before subtly fading back into the darkness. He was trapped. Instead of falling into the familiar trap of hopelessness and despair, the devil took a sharp breath and strode towards his bar. With alarmingly shaky hands, he watched as the golden liquid flooded effortlessly from bottle to glass, taking a sip of his whiskey only when it was at the brim of the tumbler. As it always did, the beverage slid down his throat, warm and fiery in its alcohol content. This was different, though. Where, before, he’d pulled out his flask countless times in order to grasp purchase on the pleasurable taste of his drink, this was drinking to forget. _How could he forget?_

Hopelessly, like a drowning man, Lucifer tipped the glass again into his mouth, draining it in seconds, pouring another round in the moments it took to put the tumbler back onto the table. Within minutes, three bottles of priceless whiskey had been emptied — enough to kill a mortal, Lucifer thought — and yet to him, there was just as much difference as if he’d been drinking apple juice. Clenching his fist as another vacant decanter clattered to the floor, he flinched at the sharp noise echoed through the silent air. Kicking another flask aside, the devil made his way over to the stairs of his room — where, twice now, Chloe had slept — and he blinked, discouraged by the unmade sheets. How could he come in here when the last person to occupy these premises had been her? How could he make the bed, smoothing out yet another trace of his detective in this terrifying loop? Sighing, Lucifer turned away from the bedroom, heading over instead to the sofa. He sat down. The devil did not sleep that night.

Chloe straightened out the hem of her skirt, looking up at the bright yellow door that could only have been Ella’s. While the paint was slightly peeling at the sides, and the frame sagged at the top — it was more inviting than anywhere she’d been recently, and that meant more than she could express. From inside, she could hear the already-drunk clamours of Linda and Ella, leaving just Maze to be found. _He left, didn’t he._ The stark heartbreak of the demon’s words still hit Chloe with as much force as a police truck, and her eyes were forced to shut momentarily for fear of smudging the mascara she’d so strongly debated putting on. Internally composing herself, the detective knocked hesitantly at the door, smiling quietly at the tipsy footsteps that hurried towards the door. As it was flung open, the pink-cheeked face of L.A.’s number one therapist greeted her, reminding Chloe how appalling Linda was at handling alcohol. She plastered on a grin as the drunk woman threw her arms open, subsequently spilling her glass of wine over a disgruntled Ella, standing a few steps behind.

“Chloeeeeee! Hi! Come in!”

Stumbling slightly, Linda pointed — roughly — to the entrance, as Chloe gladly stepped in. Ella trotted over, peeling off an alcohol-soaked jacket and wrapping her arms around the detective as the door shut behind them. The forensics scientist whispered something cryptic into her shoulder, her face squished against Chloe’s chest. In the background, overplayed 80’s tunes were throbbing in from the kitchen — currently, Toto’s _Africa_ blasted through tinny speakers as a fridge beeped somewhere. Turning to hang her coat up, Chloe stepped back as a sloshing glass of champagne was shoved in front of her nose, courtesy of the light-weight therapist. Smiling in pleased bewilderment, the detective grasped the flute as Linda tottered off to grab a bag of crisps. Ella, now a respectful few steps back, watched the cop carefully as Chloe set her glass down gently. Alcohol… was not a good idea. Raising an eyebrow, the forensic scientist pointed at the glass.

“Not thirsty?”

She shook her head at Ella, who nodded understandingly — Chloe, however, didn’t miss the subtle note of pity that laced her gaze. _You okay?_ This time, her colleague mouthed the words, embracing an unseen plea for privacy that Chloe must have been putting out. Before any responses could be made, Linda staggered back in, clutching a packet of Lay’s. Her eyes seemed to light up with suggestion as crisp crumbs sprayed out of her mouth.

“Mmfy nght!”

Frowning, the detective tried to decipher Linda’s cryptic message, just as the therapist grasped the TV remote and held it triumphantly in the air. _Movie night._ That made sense. Ella grinned at the suggestion, snatching the device from Linda in a whirl of excited moves, switching on the television as the red glow of Netflix’s lettering filled the room. Making a disgruntled noise of complaint, Linda trotted over to sofa, glaring comically at the remote, no longer in her hands. The first few shows that came up had all been seen before, and the same went with movies. Each drunken screech that the therapist directed at the TV would usually follow a dated rom-com — _10 Things I Hate About You_ had popped up twice now, and both times Chloe had nearly had her eardrums shattered. After about three trillion Adam Sandler films that nobody gave a shit about had been skipped past, the going choice was _Love Actually;_ granted, that too was an old romantic chic-flick, but it was one that both Ella and Chloe seemed up to watching, and within minutes, all three were squished under a heated blanket with the opening credits rolling past.

_I feel it in my fingers,_

_I feel it in my toes..._

The devil flinched as the doors to his lift slid back open. In a vague representation of mortal hope, he searched for Chloe’s face in the gloom, longing uselessly for her blue eyes to land on him. No word came — barely even a noise, in fact, and as the sleep-deprived haze cleared, it was Maze who stepped out of the darkness. He hadn’t seen her since the fight at the Mayan, and he was alarmed at the bags under her eyes which sleep must have sketched in its absence. She looked… broken. He’d never seen her to look anything other than completely, terrifyingly alert, and yet here she was; back slumped, eyelids drooping, mouth slightly open in an expression of despair. Even in the darkness that was near-to-consuming, he could see the reddened rings around her eyes that gave away tears that had been shed. Maze… didn’t cry. Then again, neither did he, and yet still there was the salty residue of tears that had streaked down his cheek. Sighing, she seemed to almost fall into one of the sofas as he rose from his place in the corner, approaching her as if Maze were a lost Rottweiler — pitiful, but also notoriously able to rip out his throat should she so choose.

“You said you wouldn’t leave me.”

Lucifer paused mid-step, the breath that he was about to take caught in his throat as the distressing volume of her words hit him with the force of a truck. A horrifically emotional torrent of emotions followed, taking the devil quite literally by storm as they flooded through his mind. Both of them, covered in blood outside of some fancy apartment block, Maze staring at him with her gaze so packed full of betrayal that he almost _apologised._ He’d finally realised, at that point, that she’d gotten wind of his plan to enter back through the gates of heaven and strand her on these hopeless earthly planes. Bloody hell, he hadn’t actually thought about going through with it — surely the demon staring back at him had known that? The cut above her eye had reopened, he remembered, the trickle of blood merging in with the gruesome pools that were already shielding most of her face. Of course, she hadn’t noticed. All that she had seemed to be able to see was Lucifer, the demon loyal to a fault, even then. He almost wouldn’t have noticed the tear that slipped inconspicuously down her cheek, had it not been for the ghostly trail that it paved through the crimson. She continued to watch him, her hands so tightly clenched into fists that it was a wonder she wasn’t in pain. ( _She probably is,_ he had tried not to think.) 

“You were going to _leave me._ ”

There it had been — the tragic flicker of emotion that scarred her features momentarily, a historic echo of the words that she’d uttered moments before (for this was now, and surely that was only a memory) as he had finally understood the grand intensity of the betrayal that she must have been feeling. He’d promised, then, that he’d _never_ leave her, his certainty in the notion confirming to both of them his truth, relief washing over the hell-forged pair even as Maze had stalked off. That had been her forgiveness. That had been his safety. 

Lucifer blinked, dragged back into reality by Maze, who took a sharp intake of breath in the silence. He’d promised her. His word was his bond, and now that was broken, too. Falling back into the wall, the devil struggled to control his breathing, not daring to move for fear of releasing all of the despair that came with eons and eons of promises, broken in a single realisation. _I would never leave you._ The words, once so filled with meaning, with _truth,_ seemed to disintegrate in the back of his mind, that sentence and billions of others crumbling into the terrifying veil of ash and dust and sadness that blinded him for far longer than he could bear. He left her. Of course, _of course,_ it was bad enough having to tear himself from the detective, but this was different. In flying past all of his eternities and far, far, down into hell, he’d ripped through the very prospect of truth he’d held dear. 

He’d broken her. Lucifer watched, heartbroken, as Maze slid off the sofa, mumbling his name over and again, her head hanging in her hands. Two. Two reasons, now, why he _had_ to get back to earth — two reasons why there was no hope for him down here anyway. Willing himself to take another step towards Maze, the devil teetered forwards, stooping down to look at Maze through shining eyes. 

“You _promised_ you’d never leave me.”

She seemed to spit out the words like they were poison, the stark revelation that the being who had been her ally for eternity was… not, in fact, a devil of his word. He sat tentatively beside her, playing with the solemn ring that sat on his finger. 

“I know.”

He _knew._ She was so… devastatingly close, as he reached out to touch her, to shove her gently on the shoulder just as a mere symbol that he was _here,_ that he was _alive —_ but he stopped, snatching his hand back for fear ( _fear,_ he thought, mocking the word) of the gut-wrenching feeling of passing one’s hand through a version of someone so many eons above. Or below. Perhaps, this far away, the humane constructs of direction didn’t even exist. Lucifer released an exasperated sigh as he waved his hand slowly through the air, which was, he realised, just another illusion. How exactly he was living on stolen, hallucinatory oxygen, the Devil could not place — all he knew was that he was. Alive. Perhaps.

The demon next to him stood, impossibly fast yet still in lack of her usual practiced grace, sniffing quietly as she turned her back on the room. Her footsteps were brittle and staccato now, as if she were desperate to escape, jamming her finger into the lift button as Lucifer rose, too. He trailed her hopelessly into the lift, mindlessly in search of an escape as she let out a shuddering sigh that was all too close to a sob. It was a single blink that Lucifer had the misfortune of letting his eyelids undergo, yet in a sudden, stomach-turning rift, he was cast back out onto his balcony, the horrific speed of his movement sending his body convulsing in retches that brought nothing up. He hadn’t eaten since he’d arrived in this literal hellhole — not that it made much of a difference without the detective in anything like close proximity. Staring down at the alcohol-saturated bile that had instead risen from his stomach, Lucifer sighed, leaning back onto his haunches and staring instead up at the star soaked sky.

Chloe mumbled a haphazard thanks to Ella as she tottered out of the apartment, stumbling on the uncharacteristically bright red stiletto that was soon cast into a nearby bush. Her bare foot grazed onto the pavement as the detective waved frantically at a cab, inadvertently flashing her badge — _why had she brought that again?_ — as she almost tripped over her own left foot. Behind her, Ella and Linda were wailing some dramatic goodbyes and for a moment, Chloe was close to laughing as she tumbled onto the black leather of the taxi. The driver looked back at her, a glint of humoured pity in his eyes directed at the woman who was sprawled over the back of his cab. In a brief second of _pure_ lunacy, the detective popped a finger gun at the guy with a wink, blushing furiously as he turned uncertainly away. 

“Can you d— yeah, can we go to Lux?”

He nodded, seemingly bewildered that his passenger, already intensely drunk, would want to go to a nightclub, but made no complaint as he pressed his foot on the gas. The vehicle sped into the traffic, the hypnotic blurs of flashing lights and neon signs casting Chloe into a wine-induced trance as Lucifer’s building loomed in the distance, the penthouse still visible from the ground.

“ _Lucifer!”_

The detective’s voice was slurred as she crashed into the room, flicking the lights on with her elbow. Without a single care, she peeled off her dress, taking the second shoe with it as her clothes were discarded onto the floor. Hey, nobody was here to see her, so why should she care? The detective stumbled over the the bed, sheets still unmade, flopping down into it as the day caught up with her. Her eyes started to shut before she sat back up, staring fuzzily out at the room. The safe was still there, locked with a code she’d never know; the same safe that’d locked up the necklace that she played with, even now. She’d almost memorised the individual bumps and grazes on the pendant now, as if it weren’t a bullet but a story book she’d known her entire life. The name that she’d voiced just moments ago — his name — still seemed to be echoing out into the penthouse, the lack of response an ugly reminder that there wouldn’t be any form of reply for a long time. Disgruntled by the depressing train her mind seemed to have jumped on, Chloe heaved her body off of the bed, leaving the sheets still unmade beside her. ( _Sheets he would have tidied,_ she tried not to think.) Again, she called his name into the darkness, as if there would be an answer to her hopeless plea. Nothing. Nothing but the slicing wind that slipped under the balcony’s sliding doors, that whispered against her cheek where the Devil should have been. He’d left her. She knew — god _,_ she _knew,_ — that he had to, that the mortal world would be otherwise endangered had he not flown himself down to hell — but he could have come back, by now, surely? He could just bat his wings and be here, if only for a minuscule moment — that would be enough. All she wanted was his touch. The warmth that he seemed to emanate, the heated marks that his hands would leave. His voice. Whether or not she was, supposedly, immune to his charms, it was impossible _not_ to notice the way that he spoke, as if every word were in fact some delicate honey that dripped off his tongue. All she wanted, she realised, was _him._ Even now, in her drunken stupor, stood uselessly in the middle of this darkened room, she knew. Even as she staggered over to the sofa, her stomach churning like waves in an ocean, she called his name. Even as her eyes shut, as she attempted to block out the deafening scream of loneliness, there were three words that refused to leave her mind — perhaps they were thought, or said, or screamed, or breathed —

_Please come home._


	4. Wake Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe has a fairly angelic revelation which leaves Lucifer devastated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Yes, I am being active now and I will actually try and finish this... whatever this is. I don't know. I was in, like, 12 moods when I wrote this so it sort of slingshots back and forth between happiness and sunshine to literal death and a shit ton of sadness. In summary: lol i'm a mess 
> 
> As always, feel free to drop a comment or something if you can!
> 
> Chapter title credits go to Avicii. Rest in peace.

_Amenadiel._ The force of Chloe’s revelation bolted her upright, the immediate pain from her wine-induced headache very much detected. Rubbing her forehead, the detectiveflinched away from the light, groaning as she rubbed her eyes. Her surroundings were alarmingly familiar — the blinding sunlight streaming through the glass of the balcony doors a sight she’d woken up to at least three times just this week. Stretching (rather unattractively) Chloe almost rolled off of the sofa, a throbbing complaint from her head sending her eyes back shut. _God._ That was why she hadn’t wanted to drink last night. Foggy recollections of a powerfully drunk Linda seeped into her thoughts as Chloe yawned, remembering the glass of red that was pressed into her hand. And the next. And… the eight or so that followed. Stumbling slightly, the detective made her way over to the bathroom — even the priceless vanity, however, could not hide the hangover-related bags that seemed to age her pale (paler than normal, at least) face. Grimacing at her own appalling reflection, Chloe decided that the best course of action was a face wash and some suspiciously dark sunglasses. Fondly, she allowed her mind to drift back to Lucifer, (of course), when he’d had to walk around in stolen glasses, evidence gloves and her neckerchief — _I look like Stevie Wonder on a snow day_ — and allowed the corners of her mouth to twitch up, momentarily, before the harsh claws of reality scratched at her memories and the beginnings of a smile were swept up into the past.

The past — hadn’t she been thinking about something before the distraction of a pounding head got in the way? Frowning, Chloe stared quizzically at her own reflection before her own realisation hit her just as hard as the first time. _Amenadiel._ He, surely, could fly her down to Hell — if, in fact, ‘down’ was the appropriate term — he was an angel, after all. Even with her matured instincts kicking in and suppressing an overly bouncy burst of happiness, the detective permissed a fleeting moment of joy — but, as with essentially anything nowadays, this would take planning, and thought, and—

(— _and she really, really might see Lucifer again!)_

The devil watched fondly as the love of his life pumped her fist at her own reflection — seconds ago, her eyes had lit up with some form of revelation — of course, he was ecstatic to see how well she was doing, but curiosity got the better of him (for what else was curiosity there for?) and he padded over to try and figure out what she was thinking. Unreadable as always, she seemed to straighten up as he approached, sliding back into her usual, professional persona in the blink of an eye. Or an eternity. Again, it was hard to know. With that, she flicked the lights out in the bathroom, striding out with all the grace of a show pony. Even with that applied, Lucifer was shoved forcefully back into real time as she walked physically _through_ him, triggering a gag reflex he wasn’t even remotely aware of prior to last night. Luckily for his carpet, the devil had regained control of his stomach, and instead reverted to gripping on to the only standing leg of his destroyed piano, his knuckles white with the intensity of his grasp. He could never get used to that.

As if her life were a TV programme, Lucifer placed himself on the sofa and regarded her as Chloe pulled out her phone from one of the opposite couch’s cushions. Brushing off some crumbs, she dialled Dan first — which, inexplicably, miffed the devil more than he would have liked to admit — mumbling something about him calling in a sick day for her. This, he realised, must be _urgent_ if she was skiving work; second to her family, the LAPD was the most important thing in her life. Alarmed at how desperate he must therefore be, Lucifer gulped at the arousal he felt at seeing his uptight detective break such an important rule. _Scandalous,_ he might have quipped, had he been sitting by her side, instead of watching a frustratingly illusive version of Chloe go about her business. Next up on her contact list was Amenadiel — _Amenadiel?_ — while the angel was, of course, Lucifer’s brother, him and Chloe didn’t exactly communicate much outside of the precinct. Whatever was happening, the devil was determined to figure it out.

“Hi, Amenadiel. I was… well. I have this, slightly insane, probably, plan, and it’s to do with a tricky, ethereal-ish problem that you don’t know about. Yet. I… yeah. Come up to Lucifer’s penthouse.”

She paused.

“Oh, and, maybe leave Linda in bed. I have a feeling she’ll need the rest.” 

Clearly desperate to avoid any questions at that stage, Chloe hung up on his brother, her cryptic message shining little more light than there had been before on the entire matter. Folding his arms, Lucifer stared, utterly dumbfounded as to what on earth the detective would want from Amenadiel. It probably wasn’t worth thinking about for now. The drive from here to his brother’s was about twenty minutes if the devil were at the wheel — plain old daddy’s boy, however, would take closer to forty. Sighing, Lucifer rose from the patent leathered sofa, pouring himself a glass (an entire glass) of tequila as he waited for the time to pass. He decided not to focus on the empty whiskey bottles that littered the floor, for those thoughts that darkened his mind like ink might water were reserved for the black of night when not even his stars could save him.

Forty five minutes later, the left dinged and Amenadiel strolled in, still Lucifer casually regarded, frustratingly regal in his taut posture, his broad steps. The man seemed to have aged since the devil had returned from his vacation — was that _stubble_ that he could see on his brother’s meticulously groomed face. Wow. Fatherhood must really have taken its toll on this man with bags under his eyes bigger than the ones old Giorgio had designed back in the day. Even with that, though, Amenadiel’s aforementioned uprightness had not disappeared, and for a fleeting moment Lucifer was impressed by his brother’s ability to stay strong through what must have, admittedly, must have been a hellish task. He knew millions of souls down here whose loop had been a baby crying — or something along those lines. Bloody hell, he hated that sound.

“You called me.”

Connotations of Batman were brushed away in the devil’s head as Amenadiel’s gravelly voice echoed through the room. Chloe nodded, swallowing — Amenadiel didn’t notice, but the way her jaw clenched momentarily was enough to alert Lucifer to the depth of what was really happening here. Which reminded him;what _was_ happening? Stepping forward, the detective gestured towards the sofa as the angel took a seat. Bewildered, the devil joined him, cocking his head in confusion.

“So… there’s bad news.”  
  
Amenadiel’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked around the room, trying just as hard as Lucifer to figure out what was going on. Bewildered, he drew his gaze back to Chloe as she wrung her hands nervously in front of her torso.

“Lucifer…”  
  
At the mention of his name, the club owner sat up, staring quizzically at his flustered detective — with a start, he noted the glaze that had misted over her eyes, and the way she was biting her lip as if even saying his name hurt to have to do.

“…is in Hell.”

_Oh._ That. That made sense. Turning to his left as the reminder of the situation pushed the air out of his chest, Lucifer watched his brother’s angelic features, hungry for a reaction — a distraction, maybe, from the way that Chloe was desperately wiping at her eyes. _Dad,_ he hated to see her so sad, all too aware that there was nothing he could do. As if it would do anything, he reached forward to her hand, flinching as, again, _damn it,_ (but how could it change) the air seemed to distort around their fingers, as his stomach roiled at the sight of him simply passing through her. He _hated_ this. This, however, was the closest that he could hope to be to her, as her other hand flopped down to her side, giving up on barricading the tears, letting them slide silently down her cheeks. _Don’t cry, Detective._ He wanted to whisper into her hair. _I’m not worth it._ The same, inescapable trance swept over him, bringing him back to _that_ night, to his fingers caressing her cheek, to his lips sliding over hers in the beautiful harmony he couldn’t ever go back to. He stepped away, drawing his arm back to his own body, hopelessly looking on as Amenadiel stood. Wordlessly, he placed a hand on her shoulder, his dark eyes shadowed suddenly with sadness. He shook his head, though, almost as if he didn’t believe the news that had just been delivered.

“But… you and him… he wouldn’t leave you.”

The devil had to step back, shocked at the certainty with which Amenadiel delivered his statement. Because that was the one sure thing, wasn’t it? That he wouldn’t leave his first love, that he wouldn’t go back to Hell without her. Even with the distance he’d cleared, he _heard_ the small gasp that came from Chloe’s throat. In one sharp inhalation, she broke his heart. Again. Her mouth opened, briefly, perhaps to say something, but it shut just as quickly for fear of releasing emotions that she’d promised to pack away. Instead, she shook her head, glancing briefly towards the balcony as Amenadiel watched.

“I want to see him.”

Lucifer’s jaw dropped. _No._ No. That… this wasn’t part of the plan. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t put herself in danger that was most _certainly_ mortal for him. He wasn’t worth it. Didn’t she understand that? He wasn’t worth _anything_ that Chloe was. Clenching his fists, Lucifer desperately attempted to control the rapid breaths that would not stop speeding up at the very thought of his detective coming to Hell. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he gulped, watching the love of his life continue to make the worst decision she’d ever made. The ringing that had hid in the back of his eardrums now attacked as the air grew cold, as the horrific images of demons ripping her limb from limb ambushed his thoughts. Even if they didn’t sense the presence of an unregistered life, she’d die anyway. This was _Hell._ Spend more than a few earthly minutes here, and you were deemed as dead by whatever ethereal forces decided that. Besides — time didn’t _work_ like that here. Minutes up there could be _seconds_ down here. Less than that. She’d die. Chloe would die, and dying in Hell would surely restrict her from Heaven’s gates, where she was always destined to go… she’d be trapped down here. _Trapped._ In her own loop, eternally suffering through the worst thing that her conscience could muster. He couldn’t let that happen.

“I can’t do that.”

Amenadiel’s stony voice cut through his thoughts, and as Lucifer’s breathing started to slow, relief washed over him, for the first time in what must have been millennia, that his brother was, in fact, the most uptight person the devil would ever meet. Chloe shook her head, calculating his answer as if it were a maths problem she hadn’t expected to have to face. Again, her mouth opened. Again, it closed.

“You’d be at more risk than I’d ever have a mortal be subjected to — and Lucifer might honestly kill me for it.”  
  
 _Damn bloody right, too._ No way was Chloe ever going to Hell if he could prevent it.

“No. No you… you don’t understand. I _have_ to see him. He— I need him. Don’t you get it? I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’ve pawned Trixie off onto Dan, and I can barely talk to him and Ella without breaking down.There are days when I wake up and I can’t _breathe,_ because I’m so fucking terrified of what he’s going through down there. And then some time goes by and I pass out, because maybe I don’t _want_ to breathe when he’s not here. Maybe I don’t want to speak, or move, or do a single fucking thing with my life because there’s nothing _there_ any more except for pain. And unless I see him soon…”

She paused, a lonely tear streaking down her face and dripping, like wax off a dying candle, onto the marble floor. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, barely audible over the devastating sound of silence.

“Unless I see him soon, I’m worried that I won’t have to do _anything_ with my life because there won’t be a life to live.”

The devil's heart broke like glass.  



End file.
